


All My Trials, Lord, Soon Be Over

by spockandawe



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Abuse, F/F, F/M, Flushed Romance | Matesprits, Mind Control, Mindfuck, Non-Graphic Rape/Non-Con, Sexual Slavery, Slavery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-09
Updated: 2015-01-09
Packaged: 2018-03-06 19:43:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,424
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3146318
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spockandawe/pseuds/spockandawe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s been so long. You can’t—You lose track of the sweeps after a while, when you don’t want to think on how long has passed. Half a lifetime at least, of being bought, sold, and used. But you see the three trolls in front of you, and it’s all swept away, it’s all worth it just to have them back again.</p><p>                The Disciple is the first to move, and when she cannons into your thorax, she nearly knocks you off your feet. You… are not as strong as you once were. You do balance and catch her, with some slight difficulty. And you scarcely have a chance to find your footing before her arms are tight around you and she lifts you off your feet into a crushing hug. And you, all you can do is wrap your arms back around her, bury your face in the cloud of her hair, feeling her there against you, how real and solid she is.</p>
            </blockquote>





	All My Trials, Lord, Soon Be Over

**Author's Note:**

  * For [KyraG](https://archiveofourown.org/users/KyraG/gifts).



                It’s been so long. You can’t—You lose track of the sweeps after a while, when you don’t _want_ to think on how long has passed. Half a lifetime at least, of being bought, sold, and used. But you see the three trolls in front of you, and it’s all swept away, it’s all _worth_ it just to have them back again.

                The Disciple is the first to move, and when she cannons into your thorax, she nearly knocks you off your feet. You… are not as strong as you once were. You do balance and catch her, with some slight difficulty. And you scarcely have a chance to find your footing before her arms are tight around you and she lifts you off your feet into a crushing hug. And you, all you can do is wrap your arms back around her, bury your face in the cloud of her hair, feeling her there against you, how real and solid she is.

                She sets you down—eventually—but only because even she isn’t strong enough to examine you for injuries while carrying you. Her hands are everywhere, and she’s leaving quick, glancing kisses everywhere her hands aren’t. And she’s babbling out questions too quickly for you to answer, wondering about this scar, that one (too many scars, too many to remember, you wish she wouldn’t keep asking). Instead you do your best to lose yourself in the novelty of a kind touch, and you smooth your hands down her soft, sleek hair as she presses careful lips to a crack in your horn.

                You could let yourself sit there and enjoy this for a whole perigee. Her hands are delicate and cool against your skin, and you just shut your eyes and lean into the touch, and feel an actual smile beginning to spread across your face. Your eyes are burning. But eventually she lifts you bodily for one last embrace, then sets you carefully on your feet and backs away.

                Your son is there. There’s a long, breathless moment where both of you just look at each other. You can’t move. He’s the one to step to you first and open his arms with a wry little smile, and you collapse into him, sobbing so hard you can barely breathe, crying for the first time in sweeps and sweeps and sweeps. You tuck his head under your chin without a care for the way a sharp horn digs into your neck, and just hold him. He’s here, he’s _alive_ , somehow—You can feel the beat of his bloodpusher where his bare thorax is pressed against you.

                The way he laughs is so sad and soothing. He leans his head on your shoulder, the way he’s done since he was only a grub, and just lets you hold him close. Your hands are combing through his hair, running up and down his back, and no matter how often you trace the lines of his body, you’re half afraid he might evaporate from between your arms. You can’t find any words. He doesn’t push you for them. Even when you pull back and reach, hesitating, for his wrists, he just smiles softly and lets you.

                It takes a minute to steel yourself. You can’t meet his eyes, and you keep your gaze fixed on your hands where they hold his. When you finally nerve yourself to rolling back one of his sleeve—Scars. Only scars. Your eyes spill over again while you run shaking fingers over his wrists. The scars are truly awful, but he’s really here, he’s really alive, young and bright and _alive_ , and you can almost dream the last awful sweeps never happened.

                There’s still—You’re almost too afraid to look. How can you meet him again after so long? What will he say? What must he _think_ of you? But your son steps back from you, laughing gently and taking your hands to guide you forward. Your eyes are fixed on the ground. Nothing to see but a pair of tall black boots. You aren’t avoiding anything. Your son stretches up to give you one soft kiss on your forehead and steps away. Your hands are beginning to shake again.

                He calls your title, still lisping over the ‘s,’ just as he’s always done. Your hands are beginning to shake again. Then he whispers your name, and you force yourself to drag your eyes upward. You can see gloves now. Shoulders. And finally, you manage to look at him. Oh, but he’s always been so tall and beautiful. “Mituna,” you sigh. It feels so natural to step into his arms again. And it’s so easy to lose yourself there to just bury your face in his shoulder, let him hold you tight.

                The rest of the world fades around you. You never thought this could happen, haven’t even dared to dream it for dozens and dozens of sweeps. His hands are moving slowly over you, tracing out each and every scar with soft, cool fingers. You are suddenly ashamed of your tattered, stained dress, and bite back the urge to turn away from him. He must notice that sudden tension, because he starts to pull away, but you uncurl from yourself enough to wrap your arms around his thorax and hold him close against you. Once he’s gone back to running his fingers over your scars one by one, you manage a laugh, tracing over a scar you can feel even through his shirt, and you tell him that now the two of you match.

                When he stretches up to kiss you, it’s so easy, so natural to bend down to him and close that distance. His lips are so soft and his fangs press against your lips, and you never thought you’d have this again, _ever_. The calluses on his bare hands make you shiver where they brush over your skin, and he kisses you like you matter. You do (eventually) have enough presence of mind to remember the other two and jerk backward for a moment, before Mituna reels you back in close, reassuring you that they left, it’s fine, the two of you are alone.

                You’re the one to reach with uncertain fingers for the fastening of his jumpsuit. You don’t. Do anything for some time. Your hand rests there, numb and useless, while your mind races of in circles of do-I-want and does-he-want-me. He whispers quiet reassurances while you stand and shake. You undo the fastenings one by one, with a humiliating amount of hesitance between each and every one. He kisses you slow and deep while you fight yourself, lets his hands roam all over you. You wish you could feel the psionic buzz of skin-to-skin contact, but his gloves are in the way. You open his jumpsuit the rest of the way.

                The two of you finally break apart so he can shrug out of his clothing. When his hands move to the hem of your dress, at first you’re only too happy to be rid of your disgusting clothing, but then you look down at your own battered body, and just. No, you can’t, you don’t want to think about it—He pulls you close to him, telling you that you’re beautiful, perfect, that he couldn’t want anything more. It’s a pleasant lie, and you love him so, so much. It’s so easy to stand there and listen, and you honestly can’t think of anything you want more from life right now. His right horn is digging painfully into your shoulder, and you couldn’t be happier.

                Eventually you steel yourself into kissing him again. He stands on tiptoe to meet you. It’s much easier to handle when you shut your eyes and let yourself relax into him. No matter that it’s been half a lifetime apart, you and he had sweeps together, and even after so long without each other, it’s so natural to find that same rhythm together. It’s so easy to surrender and lie back for him, vulnerable and open. He presses himself against you, runs painted claws up and down your thorax while you smooth your hands up and down his curves, over and over. He tells you that you’re perfect and you tell him you love him. In the end you collapse into each other, pressed as closely as you can manage, losing yourself in the soothing coolness of his body. Your last thought before falling asleep is that you’d never realized his eyes were such a beautiful blue.

**Author's Note:**

> [Tumblr](http://spockandawe.tumblr.com/post/109149362576/all-my-trials-lord-soon-be-over-spockandawe)


End file.
